My dad lost his battle with COVID last night, ending a 17-day struggle. Just before Thanksgiving, my family had a bomb explode right in the middle of our lives. I don't know where it came from, but it hit my dad and me hard. Yeah, we always did all the social, protective stuff; it did not matter.
We both ended up in the hospital; he spent 6 days and then was moved to hospice care. I spent 7 days. The day he left was dark, but I was in charge of his health care and knew he wasn't getting better.
I'm told I had about an eleven hour period where my life was a roll of the dice. I remember struggling through it; I cannot describe how sick I was. Maybe, living dead? What got me through it was the ranch life. I'm 66 but have the heart of a healthy 46-year-old. I only remember telling myself to keep going. No breaks, no stops.
The real turning point was the use of convalescent plasma. This is a particular matched plasma from donors that have survived COVID. My dad got his early, but they had a hard time finding a match for me. There is an effective period when it can be used, and the plasma has a short life. My doctor told me it would be a hard find, but he would get it somehow. They woke me up one night; it had arrived. It was like turning on the lights. I guess those little antigens get used to eating COVID; they were hungry and got to work on me right away.
My dad and I had a good run. We always made the best out of time together. Every day for the last sixteen years. This is our last picture together. My head is full of dread and worry, but not him. He is happy as a clam, living in the moment in that we are together—what a great lesson in a picture.
I will always be at a loss as to how a "grenade" was dropped at our feet. My wife and sister tested positive but had very light symptoms.
